


Synchronization

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Bondage, Communication, Dom!John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, implied hurt/comfort, making it work, mentions of Sherlock and past relationships, mild aspects of BDSM, sort of, sub space, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2189034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is thirty-five when he finds the person that he wants to kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synchronization

**Author's Note:**

> I just felt like writing some ace!Sherlock with BDSM aspects tonight. I dunno why.

Sherlock is fourteen the first time a girl, one of his classmates from school, tries to kiss him. He pushes her away and she gets mad, calls him a faggot and spreads rumours around their school.

He's sixteen when Victor tries to kiss him. Sherlock pushes him away too and gets punched in the face.

Then there's the _in between_ , with the drugs, and - 

He gets better after that, more skilled at dodging and deflecting the idea of it all with cutting words. The next person to try and kiss him is Molly. Sherlock is thirty-four and terrified but when he pushes her away, she just gives him a sad smile.

He's thirty-five when John kisses him and he pushes his best friend away automatically, head spinning and flesh prickling with the ugly sensation of memories. He half expects another fist in the face or even the slamming of the flat's door, but John just stands there at a safe distance and looks at him: steady and waiting, patient or maybe just stubborn as all hell.

It takes a long time before the words come out in halting, broken bursts that don't really make much sense. Things like, "I do like you, John" and "but I don't want - any of that" and "there's nothing _wrong_ with me" with his shoulders hunched and defensive.

John listens to it all and then sets a gentle hand on his wrist, not restraining. "I know there's nothing wrong with you. I'm not expecting anything. I just thought... well," and he ducks his head and rubs at the back of his neck. His ears burn pink and Sherlock stares in fascination. 

So there's that, but then there's also this: they sit on the sofa and in the back of the taxi and anywhere at all, really, so long as they're close enough to touch now, and sometimes John will rest a hand on his shoulder or the small of his back. There's kissing, which happens more often as Sherlock grows less skittish, but never deeper than a chaste brushing of lips, and Lestrade practically beaming at the two of them the first time he understands what's going on.

And then there's this:

"You're sure about this?"

"Yes."

"I'm just making sure. You do remember what we discussed, right? Your safeword?"

Sherlock exhales, pushing away his frustration. There are two parts to John, and while his mind might not expect anything more physical than shallow kisses, his body is telling a different story indeed. John tries, he's trying his very best, but contrary to popular belief Sherlock is not completely selfish. This is not just John's problem, and, from the moment John first wrapped his index finger and thumb around Sherlock's wrist to feel for his pulse during their second kiss, he's been plotting away in the back of his mind. 

"The safeword is pink. Now do it," Sherlock commands.

"If you're absolutely sure." John's voice takes on a slightly breathy quality as he wraps the silk strip around Sherlock's eyes, loosely knotting it at the back of his head. It leaves him in complete darkness, not a scrap of light sifting through.

His ears still work, though, and he can make out the whispery sound of John's clothing hitting the floor. He'd wondered if that would make him panic, but it doesn't. A naked John is still _John_. But it's still easier when he doesn't have to watch.

Rough fingertips slide down his right arm, lingering briefly on the flutter of his pulse before disappearing, and that's a comforting confirmation in and of itself. Leather wraps securely around his wrist, and then Sherlock is allowing both arms to be tugged behind his back and fastened. With cuffs around both of his wrists, he gives a light, experimental tug. A strange warmth uncurls in his chest when he registers that the hold is too tight, too secure. He could escape given enough time, but it would take a while.

There are more cuffs for his ankles, but evidently John decides they're not necessary right now because after one last brush to his shoulder, John backs off. 

He stands alone in the middle of the room, fully clothed but - _vulnerable_.

"God," John breathes, reverent. "If you could see yourself. You're bloody gorgeous."

And he preens, just a bit, turning his head to the point in the room where he thinks John is standing. It's disorienting to not be able to see, to have everything be so switched off. Even though he can perfectly picture the flat in his mind, there's that lingering touch of discord that prickles the hair on his neck. The wooden floor is cool and firm beneath his feet, and he concentrates on not losing his balance and tipping over.

It pushes his awareness into his body, which is something that he is unaccustomed to. Sherlock tries to focus his attention on his mind, not the accompanying shell. But now he can feel a thin rivulet of sweat sliding down between his shoulder blades, feel the way the fabric of his shirt brushes over his chest with each inhale and exhale, feel the subtle change in texture as the leather slowly warms to the temperature of his body. Each sensation is wholly new in a way that is shockingly difficult to grasp.

The world seems so far away.

His nose itches. He wrinkles it, trying to push it out of his mind. His fingers flex unconsciously, still testing the cuffs, and then so do his toes. The floor, of course, has none of the give that the cuffs do. He becomes aware of the fact that he's swaying, weight shifting from toe to heel, and stops abruptly, forcing himself to stand perfectly straight. 

A soft moan to his left makes him turn his head blindly, because it's the exact opposite of where he thought John was. Either his senses are more skewed than he realized or John's moved without his notice. He's not certain which thought bothers him more. This was supposed to be entirely for John's benefit, and yet Sherlock is growing slow. Sluggish, at ease, tension vanishing from his muscles until he could slither to the ground in a heap.

"Wish you could see yourself," John says, offering something for Sherlock to latch on to. His voice is a little deeper now, raw, and for the first time, Sherlock registers a slick slapping sound that goes hand-in-hand with the hoarse grunts John's making. But he can't see it, can't even really picture it.

He wets his lips, because the idea of seeing himself, while not unappealing, might ruin the artificial sense of calm that's slowed his heartbeat and mind. He thinks this might be the rate at which normal people function all the time, and that should bother him but he's not sure why right now.

" _Jesus_ ," John hisses, dragging the last syllable out into something filthy that makes Sherlock swallow. John's breathing is ragged as he orgasms and then, from the sounds of it, he's sat down for a moment. Considering how long it's been since he had it off with anyone, Sherlock is not surprised.

His left wrist is cramping a little, but not unbearably so, and he waits in silent patience while John recuperates and then gets up and moves around. Sherlock closes his eyes for the first time, anticipating the touch of John's fingers when they come. The leather is loosened and then slipped off, but he keeps his wrists crossed until John gently guides his arms down to swing freely at his sides. Then he unties the blindfold, letting dim light in a little at a time.

"Alright?" John asks finally.

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks down slightly into John's eyes, noticing that his face is sweaty and pink with exertion and satisfaction, but that there's a worried gleam to the familiar blue. "I am fine."

"Did you... you liked it?"

"It was..." Sherlock pauses, struggling for the right words. "Not unpleasant."

John's face does something strange that, perplexingly enough, Sherlock can't identify. "Coming from you, that's practically a gold star," he mutters, more to himself than to Sherlock, and reaches for one of Sherlock's hands. "We'll talk about it more in the morning, but I thought... that was brilliant. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

John huffs a laugh and leans up to kiss him, soft and warm with amusement and affection, and Sherlock lets himself sink into it.

As it turns out, Sherlock is thirty-five when he finds the person that he wants to kiss, and John never pushes him away.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


End file.
